


End of the Road

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Sam, Episode: s02e02 Everybody Loves a Clown, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean, Protective Sam Winchester, Scared Dean, Secrets, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4399637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alright, then.<br/>Sammy’s in the mood for a fight. </p>
<p>Wherein Dean's handling burdens that aren't solely his to bear.<br/>Timestamp set at the very end of Everybody Loves a Clown, Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song, End of the Road by Boyz II Men. I challenge you to get through this without accidentally humming this song and pretending you're in a 90's R&B music video, featuring Sam and Dean Winchester.

Dean’s driving way too quickly back to Bobby’s, and Sammy’s feigning sleep beside him, head cocked unconvincingly on the headrest of his seat.

Dean snorts scornfully. Sammy could give him a modicum of credit. He’s been watching the kid sleep in the Impala in various ways, over the years.

Head stuck firmly in Dean’s lap

_move--ugh--over Dean, fucking growing, over here!_

Like he was in the process of lengthening joint and bone at that exact second.

_So?_

_I need--more space you imbecile_ (what kind of thirteen year old says that, aloud?)

limbs jammed up against the door in the backseat, socked feet digging into the metal. Head tucked just under Dean’s chin, hot breath moist and distracting on Dean’s throat (how is he supposed to get to sleep, with that?)

Sammy only felt like letting Dean in his space when he was bone-weary, guard down too low to do much more than snarl threateningly at Dean’s increased presence. Dean lived for those seconds, bodies intertwined, Sam’s sleep-peaceful face near his own.

Couldn’t put a damn finger on it, why that was the only time that he felt safe. Fingers curled possessively in Sam’s hair (watch out for Sammy, take care of your brother, boy) soft, non-scent curling up with Sam’s sapling smell.

Dean’s laugh is a ghost of a sound, this time. Doesn’t even fully make it out of his throat. Dean switches lanes and remembers how the smoke carved itself a place in his lungs, how he was still hanging on, thought he could save him, right up until the pyre began to incinerate.

He avoided looking at Sammy’s eyes as much as possible. Didn’t need to witness Sammy looking at him with that half-concealed craving anymore. He wishes things were the way there were, before the White Dove, cause now he has to deal with the way he catches Sam staring, recurrently.

All demand and contrition, sometimes with a little revulsion.

Dean steps on the gas, claustrophobic. He glances over at his brother, can tell he’s really asleep now, for real. Dean’s hand is trembling violently and he growls to himself, scrubbing the subversive appendage over his mouth. The sudden movement has the chemical scent of his body infiltrating his nostrils. He recoils, and then sighs heavily.

Should be used to that too, by now.

Dean knows Sam’s scared of clowns. Deathly petrified of them, would be a more factual term, but Dean doesn’t want to bully the kid too much, even in his own head.

Rakshasa resembled a damn clown, and Dean knows Sam has had nightmares about clowns for years. Years. As in, plural. Dean reaches over, compulsorily, wanting to run his fingers through his brother’s hair, but he jerks his hand back into his lap, residual effect leftover from Sam’s tumultuous teenage years.

_Before he...before, did he say anything to you? About anything?_

_No. Nothing._

Dean’s a keeper of terrible secrets. He can’t ever give himself to Sam. Can’t ever let his brother claim something so damaged, and think he can love it back to wholeness.

Sammy wants to be the white knight.

Life doesn’t work out like that. Dean loved his old man with every fiber of his being, and did that ever do him any good? He lost him in the end, anyway.

_You took care of Sammy, you took care of me._

_But did I, Dad, cause you’re dead and you left me with some shit on my shoulders that I don’t know what to do with._

They’re approaching the road leading to Bobby’s and Dean reasons that they could’ve stayed at Ellen’s, crashed there and taken a moment to try and figure things out. Dean rolls his eyes. He can’t think when Sam’s around, regardless. Sammy speaks up then, his head still motionless.

“We’ll find the bastard, Dean.”

Sam’s voice is cool, inflectionless, and Dean doesn’t like it. He’s never liked to hear Sammy talk like that, like he’s infallible and he’s got about one good thing to live for.

“Don’t say it like that,” he snaps, abruptly heated, right hand gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles crack. Sam responds to the challenge in Dean’s voice, always has, that one. He can’t ever back down from any fight.

Dean suspects it’s an innate Alpha thing. Can’t see the forest for the trees.

Dean slings a glance his way, sees the way Sam’s teeth are gleaming, and Dean’s aware of the Alpha hormones sweeping through the car in frenetic waves.

Alright, then.

Sammy’s in the mood for a fight.

“Say it like what, Dean?” Sam turns to face him entirely, shoulders stiff. “Like I mean it? Like it’s the most important damned thing in my life?” Dean opens his mouth, about to tell Sam to can it, but Sam’s posturing now, and Dean’s Omega claws within, demanding him to secede

_sit the fuck back_

And Dean complies, realizing hurriedly that the Impala is no place to have the kind of conversation Sam wants. “This is all I have, Dean. All I got is fighting that yellow-eyed bastard, and I’m gonna keep doing it, so help me God.” Dean swerves, wheel jerking reflexively, and he’s aware that he’s hyperventilating.

Sam reaches out and cups his hand around Dean’s neck, and Dean grits his teeth, grinding them to dust in his mouth because he _needs_ that, needs to feel it, pull himself back, but Sammy shouldn’t have to give it.

Sam’s voice is quieter, when he rejoins the dialogue, but just as feverish as before. “He takes everyone that’s ever loved me, Dean. Fuck, he might take you next, just because.” Sam’s rumbling in his chest, eyes pointed at the floorboards. “He knows what that would do. To me.” Dean doesn’t know if Sam’s conscious that his hand tightens, but Dean is, and a comfortable warmth pools low in his gut.

“That can’t happen.” Sam’s words are toneless, again, and Dean can’t look at him but he needs to hear what Sam’s thinking, what he means.

“S’not gonna happen, Sam. There’s no reason for him to do anything to me.”

_he won’t touch you if I have a damn word to say about it_

Dean’s body is shuddering, and he knows he’s drained, faint, deadened scent of fruit peeking through his sups, slicing effervescently through Sam’s Alpha forest, settling languidly in the car. Sam’s thumb grazes the bottom of Dean’s hairline mindlessly, his brother staring down at his free hand.

“I haven’t ever loved anything more than I love you, Dean.” Dean blanches.

They don’t talk about this. It’s the number two rule on the List, directly underneath the recent addendum to the first, _don’t talk about dad._

Dean likes to live by the rules, makes life clutter-free and uncomplicated, keeps Sammy compliant, if not content. Dean sucks in a great big gust of air, long-winded speech at the ready, but Sam hums, low in his throat, and Dean’s chest collapses.

Knows that’s Sam’s way of asking him not to say it, because he won’t use Alpha tone on Dean, won’t force Dean to bend to his will. Dean’s so proud of that. So gratified that Sammy is so good, when he’s turned out so depraved.

“Closest I ever got to you was a year ago, Dean.” He takes a deep breath, plunges ahead “Man, I don’t know what it is exactly, that you’re thinking. I know you don’t want me, like that, but I know you love me--don’t say anything Dean, lemme get this out. You won’t let me talk about it after this, I know.”

Dean’s eyes are squinting ahead, at the dim road, and he can see Bobby’s ramshackle house in the distance, salvage yard rising up familiar and ominous in the black.

“You don’t have to let me claim you. And I get it, now, you never will. But you’ve gotta understand that I spend every day ignoring my instincts, being around you and holding back.” Sam hasn’t moved his hand from Dean’s neck, and he didn’t realize it until the pressure tightened drastically.

“But I won’t ever let someone take you from me. You won’t ever be somewhere that I’m not. Not again.” Sam smiles ruefully and lets his hand fall back into his lap. “I’ve been doing stupid stuff because of you all my life, Dean, why change shit now?”

The car’s parked, now, next to an old Chevy, and Dean slides out, every muscle in his body protesting the limber movement. Sam doesn’t look at him again, doesn’t wait, strides directly into the house with burdensome feet, and Dean wants to tell him that it’s okay, he’s not wrong, but the words are stuck inside his throat.

He knows, nevertheless, they’ll come out ill-formed and crooked.

Dean reaches into the driver’s seat and slings his jacket (careful with that now, Dean) onto his shoulder, grunting at the spike of pain that flares up from the action.

Sammy always sleeps with his head propped against the window.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ayeee, shoot ya girl some comments.


End file.
